How I See
by Keitorin Asthore
Summary: I understand so much more than what you think I do. All you have to do is stand in front of me, and I can read you like an open book. Slight Tokka. Oneshot. COMPLETE.


Disclaimer: Avatar: The Last Airbender belongs to Bryan Konietzko and Michael Dante diMartino, not me.

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I've heard that people who can see judge a person by their face.

How ridiculous can you get?

A person's face isn't their own choosing. They weren't lounging around in their mother's belly thinking "Hey…I want me some blue eyes. And a nice nose. And I want to be pretty, too, if you don't mind."

Seriously, I really am the only person who can see.

I developed my own methods- much more reliable methods, if you ask me. That's how I can see.

Everything about Aang is light, from his quick footsteps to his laugh to his rapid breaths. His hands are small, like mine, but with long nimble fingers. Despite his lightness, though, I can sense his other ties- the calm and assured way he stands with his feet firmly planted, the flexibility of his motions, the hot rush of temper that is soon cooled. Even if he said nothing, I would know he was the avatar.

Each step Katara takes is graceful. Sometimes I wonder why she didn't become a dancer. Her movements are smooth, and fluid, and steady. Even when angry she moves in fast arcs. Out of all of us, she is the calmest, inside and outside. I can tell she smiles often- her voice takes on that odd characteristic that indicates the corners of the mouth are turned up. Despite reassuring us that she isn't worried, when she takes my hand to guide me her smooth, cool fingers close over my palm in a close grip that said _you are ours, and I am going to keep you safe whether you like it or not_.

I'm still learning about Zuko. He's interesting to read. He's not as graceful as Katara, or as quick as Aang, but I can still feel it through his movements. He seems practiced, almost unnatural, as if he has spent his short lifetime struggling to train his body to move with swift precision instead of embarrassed clumsiness. When he stands it is with his center of gravity poised to run. I don't know why. Why would a prince feel the need to be prepared to flee at any moment of any day? Yet despite this, his voice is warm and steady, like a fire that has been banked and the ashes are only warm and dusty on my fingers. He is learning to be sure of himself. And he is also learning to be compassionate. When I grasp his hand, his fingers fold clumsily, like he is unused to the touch of another human hand, especially one as small as mine. But his grip is firm, not painful; the calluses from his swords rub lightly, telling me the stories of his hard work and determination without him having to boast.

Sokka is the most apparent to me. His footsteps are heavy, flapping against ground in loud thumps that show he has no connection to the elements- air does not make him light, earth does not make him steady, fire does not make him fast, water does not make him calm. He walks in his own way, disregarding the hidden beats that rule over a bender's life. But at the same time, he is more connected than anyone, because he is connected to other people's souls. When his voice drops to a serious tone, I can hear the sorrow that has made him distrustful. I know he wears his heart on his sleeve, and I know that too often it has been torn away from him. Yet even with the pain and fear and distrust that tugs at him, he hasn't grown bitter, he hasn't grown harsh, he hasn't lost faith. Katara may babble about hope and struggle openly with losing it, but Sokka quietly keeps believing, whether people notice it or not. He believes in all of us. He believes in me. He knows I'm strong and capable and clever. Sometimes I think he even knows that I'm lonely and frightened and lost. I think of that when he carries me. His arms are strong and his heartbeat is steady in my ears. He walks more smoothly than usual, and I know it's because he doesn't want to jostle me. The smell of campfires and sweat and sunshine surrounds me. And sometimes I lock my fingers around his hands. His knuckles are big and his fingers are blocky and sometimes I realize I am running my fingers against the thick scar in his thumb. Out of all of them, I know him the best.

Sometimes I wish everyone could be blind so they could see like this. But sometimes I wish I knew what people see when they look at me. I know I'm small. Aang is closest to my height, but when he speaks his breath brushes my forehead. My hands and feet are small too, easily swallowed up when I try on someone else's shoes or someone takes my hand. My skin is softer than one would think. I think my hair is the best- it's long, and heavy, and silky, like an expensive piece of satin. But it's too impractical to wear down, so no one ever sees that.

I wonder the most about my face. When it's late, and the others are asleep, and the vibrations of the settling earth beneath me keep me awake, I sometimes run my fingers over my face. I have round cheeks, but a pointed chin. My lips are soft, but I wonder if my mouth is too wide. My eyelashes are long and brush against my cheeks when I remember to blink. But I don't know what color my eyes are. Even if someone told me, I wouldn't know what they were talking about.

I know who I am. I am steady and determined. I am clever and outspoken. But I am also naïve and still a girl. So even though I know who I am, I wonder if anyone knows me.

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**Author's Note:**

And now you see what results when you add cold medicine, very little sleep, and too much Avatar goodness. (Seriously…I have an awful cold. And it's _springtime_. Not fair!)

The Tokka just came naturally in this one. I wasn't really intending to do a pairing, but hey, there it is. Enjoy.

I was in the middle of posting this when the idea for the last three paragraphs struck. So I posted the story, tacked on the paragraphs, and reposted. Sorry about that. I just don't think very quickly...

I wrote the descriptions starting with the hardest. I have a devil of a time trying to write Aang. I have no idea why. It's the same reason I never write Manta Oyamada, or Beast Boy, or Ginny Weasley. I think the characters are awesome (well, Manta's okay), but there's something about the way they are that falls flat when I try to write them.

On the other hand, I love writing angstbucket little girls- Toph Bei Fong, Anna Kyoyama, Raven…somehow I just have so much fun with that. No idea why.


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